


Shadow's Ascendance

by sheashannara



Category: Original Work
Genre: Detective, Fantasy, Mystery, Steampunk
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-20
Updated: 2017-01-30
Packaged: 2018-08-23 12:17:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 14,803
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8327515
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sheashannara/pseuds/sheashannara
Summary: Just another day in the life of the two detectives as they are called to investigate a murder. Detective Jonas is a half-Orc with magical abilities and his partner Detective Dorf is mundane.





	1. Chapter 1

Like most things in life, this story starts with a woman.  But not just any woman, oh no.  I’d be lying if I didn’t say that she was probably the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen.  Hair like spun gold, long and luxurious as it draped down her back in amber waves.  Eyes the color of a clear country sky at high noon.  Skin that seemed as soft as a newborn baby, with that healthy tan that meant she must have spent a good amount of time outside this smog-covered city.  And the types of curves that reminded me of something sleek and dangerous, like a panther: you know you shouldn’t touch, because you would just end up hurt, but you almost couldn’t help yourself.  Yup, she was amazing.

Sighing, I stood up and released the spell by snapping in half the ceramic clockwork gear I had used as a focus.  Swallowing hard, I wiped my right hand on my pants, making sure to get all of her blood off of my palm. And with that final motion, the hazy picture I had conjured up of this once vibrant young woman faded away into the ether.  In doing so, I saw this unfortunate female human as she was right now: naked and spread out so all of her limbs hit a compass point in the circle that had been inscribed in chalk on the alleyway floor.  Oh, and headless, which is why I had to do the spell in the first place.  Kind of hard to identify the victim when they don’t have anything to identify them with.  

Clear signs of torture marked her corpse, along with a hole in her chest where her heart should be.  Whomever had done this had taken their time, and she hadn’t died quick or easy.  No matter how many times you see it, it never gets easier seeing someone murdered.  It makes you realize how fragile we all really are.  I sighed once more, and then turned to face my partner.

“Were you able to get a good look?” he asked, holding his breath in anticipation.

Nodding my head, all I said was, “Yeah.”  He put his hand on my shoulder and gripped it once before releasing me.  Dorf knew that it wasn’t easy for me, but he also knew that I did my job no matter how difficult it was.  Being detectives wasn’t for the weak-stomached, that’s for sure.  It also helped if you viewed each death as a personal affront to your morals and values.

Dorf has been my partner since I made detective almost three Cycles ago.  In fact, he was the one who vouched for me when all of the other detectives said I wasn’t fit to do it.  Of course, since I had a reputation for a temper, none of them were brave enough to say it to my face, but they still all thought it, and they voted nay in the selection process.  Only Dorf, this scraggly looking human with his permanent bristle on his cheeks, sunken brown eyes under a deeply lined forehead, and jowls from too much ale and greasy food, had seen through my Orcish features and realized that I would make a great detective.  The Chief must have agreed with him because he also vetted me.  I hadn’t forgotten that, and I did my best every day to prove them right.

To be fair, I was only half Orc.  The other half was human, which was probably the only real reason I had even made it onto the police force.  Most Orcs were feral savages; the ones who fought against their bestial natures and made it into the city usually ended up on the docks as loaders or on the janitor staff -either for the city or for some private business- cleaning up all the shit and doing all of the work that nobody else wanted to do.  Hey, it was an honest living.

Unlike my partner, who was going bald and still tried to pretend that his muddy brown hair hadn’t receded from the front of his head like it was trying to escape, I still had a full head of midnight black hair and kept it tied back in a warrior’s tail. I also never wore a hat, preferring that nothing block my vision.  Plus, a big part of it was vanity, I’ll admit.  Standing in the rain pouring down on us like the Gods themselves were crying over this woman’s death, I envied Dorf’s thick brimmed bowler hat and the fact that he had a dry face while mine was soaked.

His name wasn’t Dorf, that was just my nickname for him.  To be honest, I don’t know why he allows me to call him that, but since I am the only one he doesn’t lay out when they do, I won’t look a gift horse in the mouth.  Waldorf Pennywhistle the Third was his full name; besides being the third Waldorf he was also the third generation police officer, and the first to make detective.  He came from old family, not noble or well off per se but one of the oldest families in this wonderful melting pot of a city we called home.  It was said that if you couldn’t find it in Aerendor, then it couldn’t be found.  Since everyone said it, I guess it made it true.

Coming back from all my woolgathering, I realized that Dorf was waiting on me to give him something to go on.  Even though he had no magical talent whatsoever, he knew enough to know that those kinds of spells, like the one I just cast, take a lot out of you.  Ignoring him for just a little bit longer, I reached down and pulled out my waterskin, taking a long draw off of it before tying it back to my belt.  I knew that if I had asked him, he would’ve let me take a drink from his flask, which he always kept full with the cheapest whiskey a detective could afford; but, I needed all my wits about me.  Drinking to forget her face could wait until I was home alone.

“All right Dorf: the victim was human, with long blonde hair and blue eyes.  No markings or tattoos on her face, which probably means Old Blood, since they instill in their children at a young age how to look proper and all of that.  The body is just starting to cool.  There were no signs of a struggle here in the alley, which means that she was unconscious when she was tied up.  Probably drugged, since her wrists and ankles show no signs that she tried to free herself, and the markings on her body would have taken several minutes to complete.”

“OK, we can pass out some sketches and make some calls to see if any of the Old Blood are missing a daughter or niece.  But, if this took a few minutes to do, how come nobody saw anything?  It’s Sixthday night, which means that these streets would have been packed a few hours ago.”  Dorf suspected what had happened, but he needed me to say it.  There was a reason that detectives were paired up this way, one mundane and one caster.  A system of checks and balances that brought out the best of both worlds.

If you are mundane, this may be hard for you to accept, but it’s the best explanation I can give.  Have you ever crossed your eyes, so everything goes all hazy and your vision seems to double?  Yeah, using arcane sight is kind of similar to that, if that makes sense.  Walking to the alleyway entrance, ignoring the flatfeet that were keeping the gawkers at bay standing on the cement sidewalk, I turned around and activated my arcane sight.  Peering up at the wooden walls of the alley, I spotted what both Dorf and I had expected.  Murky iron spikes were driven into the wall, high above where most people would look; the spell had cast a deep shadow over the alleyway, but done it with such subtlety that the average person walking by wouldn’t have even stopped to wonder why the alley was so dark.  They would have just passed on by, never knowing that a young woman’s life was ending just steps away from them.

Walking back over to my partner, I confirmed Dorf’s suspicions.  “Yup, a cloaking spell had been thrown up high at the alleyway entrance, real subtle work.  That, coupled with the ritualistic way this girl was murdered, means that we have a caster as a killer.”

“Well, fuck,” Dorf cursed as he turned away from the body to spit to the side, his brown eyes reflecting the unease we both felt.  “The news is gonna have a field day with this.”

“Can we keep this quiet for a while, try to gain some ground on our killer before they get tipped off we’re on their trail?” I asked in vain, already knowing what the answer would be.

Shaking his head no, Dorf sneered.  “Freedom of the Press is one of the founding tenets of our fair city.  If I try to keep them out of this, they will pitch such a fit that the Chief will gladly tear me a new asshole, no matter how much he may agree with us.”  He rubbed his craggy face and sighed before continuing.  “The best I can do is hold off on releasing it until tomorrow morning; I’ll blame a clerical error for the fact that it didn’t get reported right away.”

I gave him a feral grin.  “Hey, every little bit helps.”

Turning back towards the body, my partner gestured at the markings around the chalk circle and on the victim’s body with disgust.  “Any idea what any of this shit means?”

“Not a clue, and besides Common, Draconus and Orc, I read several other languages.”

“Pretentious show off,” he teased me.

“Bite me,” I shot back with a wink.

“Ah, don’t think I haven’t thought about it, but Gregory doesn’t like to share, so I’ll just keep my lips and teeth to myself,” he shot back just as quickly with a small chuckle.

“How is he, by the way?”

“Oh, he’s good.  Just took a supervisor position at the hospital, so between my busy caseload and his new job, we don’t see each other as much as we’d like.  But, it will be our fifth wedding anniversary in just a week, so I’m hoping I can at least take him out for dinner that night.”  A rare smile broke out on Dorf’s face, as it always did when he thought of his husband, and I was happy for both of them.

“Hey, I did a favor for the owner of that new Elven restaurant, Flora and Fauna I think it’s called, so if you guys want reservations let me know and I can put in a word for you.”

“I thought that Elves and Orcs were mortal enemies, or some shit like that.”

I snorted, baring my tusks in a mock-threatening snarl.  “Do you believe everything you read or hear from a news crier?  Our people may have been like that in the past –or possibly out in the country where less civilized people live- but here in the city at most I’ve encountered a little bit of snobbery, which from those pointy ears is pretty normal for everyone but them.”

Dorf barked out a laugh.  “Yeah, ain’t that the truth.  Well, with some exceptions.  Hey, before I let the boys from the meat wagon in, do you need to copy down these markings?”

“Yup, give me just a second.”  Unsheathing my athame, I went over and scrapped off some of the alley floor inside the inscribed circle, and as much as it disturbed me, some of the victim’s skin.  I ducked under an umbrella that one of the flatfeet had so conveniently provided and pulled out a pen and a blank piece of parchment.  I crumbled both alleyway dirt and skin and put them into the top of the pen; grunting only slightly, I then pierced my skin with the tip to use my blood for ink.

Activating my arcane sight one more time, I stared out at the victim and the circle and let my vision and the pen do all of the work.  It only took a minute, but when the spell was done I had recreated the markings on the victim and the circle perfectly.  Turning the pen upside down, I shook out the dirt and skin and made sure to mutter the phrase that caused a small spark to ignite on my fingertips before burning the remnants of the spell to ash.  No sense allowing some other caster to use them as ingredients to see what I just did, since it was a fair bet that only the killer would know that information.  This just cut down on the number of potential suspects.

“No matter how many times I see that shit, it’s still weird,” Dorf shook his head in disbelief, which caused the jowls on his cheeks to make a slapping sound.  Nobody commented on it, since I wasn’t the only one with a temper.  He was a bit sensitive about his weight.

“Tell me about it,” I agreed with my partner while I stowed away the pen and parchment inside one of many safe pockets I had added to my brown gorgon hide duster.  “And I’m the one that does the weird shit.  But yeah, I think she’s ready to be sent to the morgue.”

Gesturing to someone at the mouth of the alley, Dorf signaled that the coroner’s people were free to come and take her away, to give some semblance of decency to this poor woman.  Trying not to think about it too much, I left them to their work as my partner and I left the murder scene behind.  Grimacing to myself, I tried to be rational.  I couldn’t save her, I wasn’t a priest; the best I could do was to bring her killer to justice.  Maybe that could bring her some peace in the next world, since she was beyond mortal concerns for this one.

Above us, the buildings continued to stand silent witness, all grey and brown and red, while the rain continued to drench everyone and clueless citizens went about their normal nightly activities.  Sometimes, as I stood here in the city, I could almost feel the tightly packed buildings pressing in on all of us, hemming us in, acting more like jailors than places of safety.  At any moment, any one of us could meet the Reaper and be shuffled off this mortal coil without any warning.  Chuckling grimly, I reminded myself that it was just the murder bringing out the poetic and morbid side of me.  Nothing that special about today…just another day in Aerendor.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jonas and Dorf head back to the police station in Dorf's car (and he is a horrible driver) and Jonas reflects on his parents.

I was so concerned with getting back to the station to start deciphering the markings that had been placed on the woman and the alley that I didn’t even think about where I was walking until I heard Dorf clear his throat.  Looking up, I spotted him on the driver’s side of his steam carriage, grinning at me.  “Climb on in, partner,” he said, relishing my obvious discomfort.

“Uh, that’s OK Dorf, I’ll just go ahead and walk back to the station.  It will give me time to clear my head, stuff like that.”  I hadn’t turned and ran, but I made sure I backed up away from that metallic death machine just in case he tried to force me.  Or it ate me, which was also likely.

“Oh come on Jonas!  Don’t tell me you’re still scared!  It was just one time!”

“Three times, Dorf!  Three times you’ve almost killed me riding in that tiny little death box!”  Realizing that I was dangerously close to pouting and whining, I changed tactics.  “And of course I’m not scared!  Orcs don’t feel fear!  I…just want to walk, that’s all.”  I knew that I was protesting too loudly, but it was either that or admit how much it terrified me riding around in one of those things.  Wave of the future, my hairy ass!  There won’t be a future if people kept insisting on driving around in those steam-powered rickety machines.  Me, give me a good horse any day.  At least you can try to reason with a horse; with a steam carriage, if it breaks down, there’s nothing you can do but pray to the Gods that you don’t get hurt.

Partnerships are like any relationship, in that after a while you can read the other person like a book, and even call them out when they are full of bullshit.  This was one of those times.  Dorf just snorted once and drily said, “Yes, in the pouring down rain you want to walk eight city blocks.  Just get in, you big pussy.”  And with that, he opened the door and slid inside.  He knew that there was no way I could just ignore an insult like that, and in fact I could feel my temper straining to break free.  The only way to avoid making a scene was to prove that he wasn’t right.  And so, back stiff with pride and a barely suppressed howl held in by my lips, I opened the passenger door and crammed my massive frame inside the steam carriage.

No sooner had I closed the door than Dorf pushed down the steam lever and released the brake, hurtling us forward into traffic.  He had already started the engine, so I didn’t have time to prepare myself.  Thankfully, it was pretty late at night and the rain was doing a lot to keep most people inside where it was dry, so he only cut off two or three drivers with his little maneuver.  I dug my fingers into the door frame and held on for dear life as he sped along like there was a demon after us.  “I got the accelerant gears fixed so the stick doesn’t get stuck!  Much smoother, wouldn’t you say?” he shouted over the rush of wind and the din of people out and about, the steam powered streetlights we hurtled under almost creating a strobe effect that wasn’t helping my stomach stay settled.  He knew I couldn’t reply, seeing as how I was completely focused on not hurling up my dinner, and this made it all the more annoying…well, at least to me, it did.

Not for the first time, I bemoaned the fact that I got my physique from my Orc parent and not my human one.  Dorf may have been tall and heavy for a human, standing roughly 12 Hands and weighing about 23 Stones, but he was a lightweight compared to my height of 14 Hands and weight of 24 Stones.  And my weight was all muscle, not fat.  Unlike me, Dorf just kind of squished himself into the driver’s seat, whereas I had to recline the passenger seat almost all the way back and I still felt trapped.  But on the bright side, he got the air filtration system fixed and the engine’s steam and exhaust wasn’t blowing back into the cabin anymore and poisoning us until we both puked.  That was something at least, and not a pleasant memory to think about.

I’d known other half-Orcs before: they were usually the result of rape from raids by Orcs on the human villages located high up in the mountains, where they are taught that every life is sacred; or, here in the city, when a human woman desired to get back at her family, sometimes she went slumming and found an Orc in a tavern who would give it to her raw and rough - and as is often the case, no protection charms were used and nine months later a little bastard resulted.

Me, I was different.  My father was a human, and my mother was an Orc.  He had met her when he saved her life.  There had been an attack by the Dwarves on a relatively peaceful Orc village, as punishment for a raid another band of Orcs did on another Dwarven town.  None of that mattered to the Dwarven party, that they were punishing innocents, they had just been out for blood.  And blood they got, killing most of the children and elderly in the village while the men had been out hunting.  Afterwards, they had captured the Orc women and were going to sell them into slavery to make back for some of their losses from when they were raided.  Eye for an eye and all that.  And before you say anything, I don’t hate Dwarves for doing that.  It didn’t happen to me, it happened to my mom and long before I was born.  Why hold a grudge?

My dad had been a merchant caravan guard, and his caravan had met up with the Dwarves to help them out; the Dwarves didn’t know anyone who bought slaves, but the humans did.  One look at her, he used to say, and it was love at first sight.  Using his wages that he had just earned, he secured her freedom.  Even though she only spoke Orcish and all he spoke was the Common tongue, he still managed to convey that she was free to go and that he wasn’t going to hurt her.  She somehow managed to tell him that she was unmarried, and since her parents were killed she had nothing left to go back to in their former village.  The Orc men would consider her _Uk-rath_ , or unclean in Orcish.  If they didn’t kill her outright, they would just rape her repeatedly until she took her own life.  Yeah, my people are so supportive, I know.

So, he took her back home to his little home that he had out in the country.  It wasn’t much, just a small hut with a plot of land that he had some chickens, goats, and vegetables on; but to my mom, she said it was like their own little piece of paradise.  I mean, eventually they built it up into what I remembered most clearly from my childhood, with a barn and cattle and stuff, but back then it was barely enough to subside on.  She learned to speak his tongue, and he picked up words and phrases from her.  His name was Bart, and her name was Regtha, or Reg for short.  They got married, and within a year out popped little old me.

Maybe because my dad was human I look more like him than an Orc.  Not sure, I’m not a scientist or anything.  Doesn’t really matter anyway, since I am who I am and I can’t change it.  My eyes are blue and most Orcs have brown or black eyes, my skin is almost a dark tan color and all the Orcs I’ve seen are green or brown, and my tusks barely jut out from the sides of my mouth.  I’ve been told I’m very handsome, in a savage primal sort of way.  To be honest, I don’t really care if I’m found attractive.  Married to my job is a very apt description of my social life.

As Dorf made a turn at a speed I considered well past reckless, I looked down at my clothes to avoid making eye contact with the people wondering who the maniac was behind the wheel of this steam carriage.  Focusing on that might help my gut.  All detectives had a uniform that we wore, though anything else like a coat or a hat was up to each individual; as long as the main uniform itself wasn’t altered and was visible, the brass upstairs didn’t care how we dressed.

The colors of our uniform were selected by a committee that ultimately reported to the King.  Why would the King care what colors the city police wear?  Beats the shit out of me, but there it is.  Personally I think this committee is just a bunch of unctuous sycophants who try to cozy up to our King, Edward Terrance the Fourth, since he’s still fairly young as monarchs go.  He took the throne only 5 Cycles ago, after the untimely death of his father, Edward Terrance the Third; turns out, our late King had an allergy to a new crop called peanuts.  Such a shame.  Thankfully, he seemed to want to continue the traditions set down by his ancestors, and so there hadn’t really been any changes as far as I could see, which was really all the general populace wanted.  To be able to live out their lives without oppression or too much oversight.

It’s funny, but even though we are technically a monarchy, we are all considered free men (or women) as set down by the city charters written up over 5 centuries ago.  The city came first, and then the land around the city, and so on and so forth until one day we had a kingdom that’s called Tyrinos, after our 1st King.  Weird, I know, but apparently that’s usually how it goes.  So since we are all free people, the city couldn’t just keep sending out the city guards to deal with small problems like petty theft, drunken bar fights and things of that nature.  That’s why a police force was created, to help keep the peace so the city guard could do what they were supposed to: guard the city from outside threats, leaving us to deal with threats inside the city.

Detectives and flatfeet (or patrolmen as they like to be called) all have our own uniforms.  Like Dorf, I was clad in dark red trousers, made from some fancy new material called denim.  The manufacturer had just landed the contract with the police department, and in fact weren’t selling them to anyone else for a few years as part of said contract.  Not sure how I felt about not wearing good old cotton anymore, but I had to admit that these trousers were pretty durable, warm, and they cleaned up very well.  They went well with my black hobnailed boots.

We also both had on a thick black button up shirt, though to be fair my partner’s was in danger of rupturing at the seams and mine was almost form-fitting against my torso.  I really should start helping Gregory in watching what Dorf eats, I mused.  Dorf was always a big guy, but since he and Gregory had settled down he had gotten very complacent and let himself go quite a bit.  And that much weight on a human body wasn’t good for him, I imagined.

Putting that aside for the moment, like I usually did every day, I adjusted my duster to try and maintain a little of my body heat that this cold steel machine was trying desperately to suck out of me.  My partner seemed immune to the chill (or at least never complained about it, and he liked to complain), wearing a tanned cowhide leather jacket that had more stains and patches on it than I knew what to do with.  Whenever I brought up maybe getting it replaced, Dorf reminded me that this jacket was older than I was, and would probably still be around long after I was gone.  An old joke between us, with just a hint of bitterness amidst the laughter.

See, Orcs usually die of natural causes, since it’s perfectly natural to die if you have been stabbed or chopped up or had any other violent method applied to your body.  Orcs that don’t succumb to death that way only live to be about 40 Cycles or so; being half-Orc, I split the differences between my parents and would probably live to the ripe old age of around 60.  I was already 23, and Dorf was about 35; barring him dying from some illness brought about by his weight, he would more than likely outlive me by a good decade or so.  It wasn’t something either of us liked to think about, but the truth doesn’t care if you like it or not, it’s still the truth.

I was jarred from my daydreaming and reminiscing as Dorf pushed down on the accelerant stick and slowed down this horrendous contraption to something approaching a sensible speed.  He then pulled up on the brake as gently as he was capable of doing, and knowing what was about to happen, I braced myself against the roof of the car.  Even though he probably thought it was a gentle stop, I still had to stop myself from rocketing forward once the brake was fully engaged.  With a sputter and a wheeze, the steam carriage came to a shuddering stop, and I let out a breath I hadn’t even been aware I was holding as he shut off the engine.

“See?  That wasn’t so bad.” Dorf tried to reassure me as I peeled myself off of my seat.

“You are such an asshole,” I panted out.

“Ah, you big crybaby.  You didn’t even come close to dying, and we made it here without the old girl breaking down once.  I’ll call that a win.”

“You can call it whatever you like,” I replied as I flung open the door and unboxed myself from the passenger seat.  “I still call it a death machine, and wonder every time why I let you talk me getting into that thing.”  Slamming the door a little harder than I intended, I watched him wince slightly at the abuse his ‘baby’ was taking.  Since he was senior in our partnership, he got to drive this contraption home, and I was more than happy to let him have it.

Changing subjects, he spoke up.  “Hey, listen, if I’m going to call it a ‘clerical error’ about the paperwork not being filed in time for the press to get a hold of it, we both can’t walk in the main entrance to the station.  Some of the reporters like to camp out there this late at night, hoping to get the earliest scoop on the bloody business we deal with.  How about you go in the side entrance and go to the library and lab and start working on deciphering those markings?” Dorf suggested.  No matter how slovenly his appearance, his mind was still sharp as a tack, and I knew it was sound advice.  It was one of the things that people respected about him.

“Sounds like a plan, partner.  Since I’m going to be working on this for the next few hours, any chance you can get one of the apprentices to bring me some hot _kafe_?  Lots of cream and sugar, please.”  This was one of the reasons our city still traded with the Nover Confederacy, an island nation that built its empire on the backs of thousands of slaves.  Officially, Aerendor condemned slavery (seeing as how we’re all recognized free people and all); unofficially, they needed the trade that the Nover merchants brought, and so all of those dealings were kept very hush-hush.  Gotta love the hypocrisy of politics, I grimaced.

“How you drink that crap I will never know.  What’s wrong with a nice cup of tea?”

“Tea is as weak as mother’s milk compared to the strength of kafe, partner.  You should start drinking it sometime; it’ll put hair on your chest, and stop you from looking like you haven’t hit puberty yet.”  I smirked at him.

“Besides the kafe, how about you drink a nice cold glass of go fuck yourself, eh?”  Dorf hated being reminded of how little hair grew on the rest of his body, and I knew it.  I guffawed loudly, which didn’t sweeten his disposition one bit.  “Fine, I’ll have one of the apprentices bring you that swill.  Now, hurry up and get cracking on those markings.  I can only delay so long.”

“No problem Dorf, and thanks.” He waved off the gratitude and walked nonchalantly up the steps to the precinct while I kept an eye out for reporters and went down the side steps, entering the building through the lab and library entrance.  Now, the real police work can begin, I thought smugly.  The devil was in the details, after all.  Cases like this present a real challenge, and I so loved a challenge.  I cracked my knuckles as I closed the door behind me, blocking out the steady drip of the rain, the noise of people talking, and the bright white streetlamps.  Inside was the softly lit quiet and the dry sanctity of the library and lab.  Time to get to work.

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Detective Jonas, stymied by his inability to find anything that would explain the ritual performed on the dead woman, thinks about his past and decides to head to the Archives to do some more research.

Rubbing my eyes for what was probably the umpteenth time, I leaned back carefully in the rickety old wooden chair that was the only available seat down here in the library and let out a deep regretful sigh.  I reached out and grabbed the mug on the desk, draining the last dregs of the kafe that was left in it, shuddering when I was done.  “Damn, that is some bitter ass kafe!” I muttered, wiping my mouth.

“Would you like some more, Detective Jonas?  I would be more than happy to go get some more kafe for you!  I know that you’re very busy, trying to decipher those markings.”  A chipper voice came from behind my right shoulder, and I suppressed a groan.  It should be illegal to be this happy this early in the morning, I thought with a snarl of disgust, before wiping it off my face and turning to face the bearer of that upbeat attitude.

The first apprentice that Dorf had sent down last night was an Elf, and whether he held to the same prejudices a lot of his country kind did or he was just taciturn by nature, he barely said more than ten words to me the whole two hours that he was down here.  I liked him; he left me alone to get the job done.  When his shift had ended and it was time for the new apprentices to come on, my partner must have taken great glee in selecting the one who was standing before me, uniform pressed spotlessly clean with a big smile on her face.  He knew I didn’t like her.

Her name was Trixie, and she was a species adopter, as they were calling themselves.  Most regular people called them poseurs, and with good reason.  Even though she had been born human, Trixie felt that deep down in her heart, she was really a half-Orc, and so she had been paying a caster to make small changes to her body –skin tone, eyes, hair and tusks so far- so she would look more like us.  For fuck’s sake, half the time we didn’t want to look like us, and by doing this she not only looked absolutely ridiculous, but she made a mockery of the very real bigotry and harassment my people faced every day of our lives!  Hells, she was still tiny!

At least she had gotten used to talking around the tusks, I thanked the Gods for small favors.  Those first two weeks after she had it done were so annoying, I had to restrain myself from just grabbing her by the shoulders and shaking some sense into her soft little head!  But, it wasn’t up to me to tell people how they should live –just as long as they didn’t break the law doing it.  And, I was all too aware of how easily something like this bald-faced admiration she had for my kind could turn into burning hatred if she was mistreated; and so I kept my opinion to myself and bit my tongue a lot to keep from saying something that, while true, I knew I’d end up regretting.  Some days, like when I had gotten no sleep, it was admittedly harder than others.

“Thank you Trixie, that would be most helpful.  And, no matter what you may believe, not every half-Orc drinks their kafe as black as midnight, so make sure to add the cream and sugar like I asked you to, OK?”  Though she turned beet red, she still nodded her assent and took the mug from me before scurrying off to the stairs.  We had a steam-powered elevator, but it was faster to just use the stairway than wait for it to come all the way down here to the sub-basement.

The steam-generators that powered the station were even lower than this level, accessible only by the engineers that maintained and understood their complex functions.  Give me a spell over steam-tech any day of the week, I thought.  Most people didn’t like coming down here to the library, since the grey stone floor seemed to thrum in time to the generators’ pulses, like it was a heartbeat.  They found it frightening, I found it soothing.  And besides, since this level was closest to the generators, the lights never seemed to dim or crackle, so that was something.

Not that there was much to see with the lights anyway.  The walls were originally painted a beige color, but years of cops smoking pipes or cigars while perusing the various books and tomes had stained most of the walls an ugly yellow that never truly came clean.  Besides the lone desk and chair, the only other things in this room were rows upon rows of books, tomes, journals, and even a few parchments and ancient scrolls that we had ‘acquired’ in the various cases that had been solved.  Even the librarian didn’t stay out here but usually hid in his office, which was barely bigger than a broom closet.  Looking around, I couldn’t blame him.

Sighing once more, I turned back to the tome I had spent the last 30 minutes perusing.  This was the fourth book I had read from front to back –well, skimmed mostly, since as much as I read even I’m not THAT fast a reader- and there was nothing even coming close to matching the markings that had been inscribed on the victim and the alley.  The police force had a pretty extensive library from all of the casters that it had employed and were currently employing, so if it wasn’t in these books it only meant that nobody had ever encountered the like before.

Suddenly, an idea popped into my head and I sat upright, already making the corrections to compensate for how this chair seemed one good shake from falling to pieces.  Back in the day, when this station had just been built, there wasn’t the “one mundane, one caster” rule, and if the police back then had encountered anything like these markings, they wouldn’t have written a book on it, they would’ve just mentioned in it their case notes.  “Jackpot,” I said triumphantly.

“Good news, I take it?”  I had heard Dorf’s heavy footsteps coming down the stairs, so I wasn’t surprised by him trying to sneak up on me.  I turned my chair around just in time to catch how crestfallen he was at once again not being able to scare me.  Deciding not to rub it in, I just nodded yes while standing up and stretching out my poor abused back before gratefully accepting my mug of kafe from him.  He went on talking as I used the cup to warm up my hands.  “I’m just about to go talk to the press, so I told Trixie she could go do something else and I would bring you your bitter swill.  You know the kid has a crush on you, right?”

“Yeah, and I’d sooner sleep with a Goblin than a poseur,” I muttered before taking a sip of the steaming nectar of the Gods.  Ah yes, sweet and creamy, just the way I liked it.  “I don’t care if it has been a couple of years of riding solo, I’m not having sex with her.”

“Why not?  She’s pretty enough, you know, for a girl; and she has those curves that you straight guys like.  Are her breasts and her ass not big enough for you?  Or do you like them slim?  Come on, partner, give me something to work with.”  Dorf was getting me back by watching me squirm, and his grin just kept getting wider and wider.

“Unless you want me to start asking questions about your sex life, can we just drop it?  Besides, since when do you care if I play hide the salami, as it were?” I muttered bitterly.

“I don’t, but it makes you turn all interesting shades of red, so it’s fun.  And anything you want to know about what Gregory and I do behind closed doors, ask away.  I got nothing to hide.”  My partner waggled his thick eyebrows suggestively.

“I’m aware of that,” I said drolly and Dorf let out a big barking laugh.  Changing the subject, I said, “I’m about to go to the Archives, do you wanna come?”

He shuddered.  “Nah, that place gives me the heebie-jeebies.  You go ahead, I’m going to go face the press and try not to bite their heads off for once.”

“Good luck,” I told him, and he echoed it before stomping back up the stairs.  He was going to be in a foul mood for those reporters, I thought with a savage grin.  Exercising always makes him cranky.  But, he had to be the one who dealt with the press, and not just because he was the senior detective on this case.  Most of the reporters were human, and they all seemed to be so amazed how I could speak in complete sentences and thoughts that their questions weren’t informative or probing but condescending, and it riled me up something fierce.  So, for all of our sakes (and the station’s reputation), Dorf was stuck being the spokesperson.

Putting my partner and his misery out of my mind, I went to the steam elevator and pressed the call button.  I occupied my time waiting for it to arrive by savoring my kafe and trying not to fall asleep, but soon enough the bell dinged, announcing its arrival.  The doors opened with a hiss of steam, revealing the operator, a small Gnome by the name of Kindor.  That wasn’t his real name, but a shortened version of it that most non-Gnomes could pronounce.  “What floor, Detective Jonas?” he asked, in that rolling lilt that all Gnomes had.

“The Archives, Operator Kindor,” I said, using his full title.  A lot of people liked to mock the little person, but I was a firm believer in giving what you get.  He always treated me with respect, and I made sure to do the same.  Besides, this world reminded us at every turn that it wasn’t built for people our size –him barely coming up to 8 Hands, me with my ridiculous height- and so I found in him a kindred spirit, and I hoped that he felt the same way.

People also liked to tease Kindor about his little uniform, but unlike some of the flatfeet and detectives that worked here in this station (and yes, I’m referring to my partner), the Gnome took pride in his appearance.  The uniform, a variation of our detective uniform but with cotton breeches instead of denim trousers, was pressed sharply every day that I had seen him.  His white hair was always cut short with a red fez perched on top of his head, his mustache was waxed and shaped with a little curl, and his black leather shoes were always spit shined to a mirror polish. 

Kindor nodded and tipped his hat to me by grabbing the fez and lifting it up slightly before turning back to his operator’s panel and finding the right combination of levers to pull to take us to the Archives.  Once he did, he pulled and pushed a few until he was satisfied, and then he pushed the button to close the doors.  After they had closed with a small burst of steam, we started to slowly move upwards.  Since this was the only way to get there, I didn’t have a choice.

And just like Kindor, my full name wasn’t Jonas.  Oh, Jonas was the name my father gave me, to help me sound more human; my mother had insisted on giving me her surname, to tie me to me Orc heritage.  Like my tusks and size didn’t do that already, but I never begrudged her that choice.  It’s why I still go by it today, even though the average person only knows me by Jonas or Detective.  My last name is _Kuurnok_ , which translated into Common means “shadow”.  She had said it was the name of her former tribe, and so I wore it with pride.

Not sure why I had thought of my parents; hadn’t done that much in the last few years, and here I had conjured up their ghosts twice in one day.  I guess this case was making me melancholy, though I’m not quite sure what the reason was for that.  This reminded me of an old Elven saying: those who have passed on are never farther away than your heart.  Granted, it sounded much prettier in Elven, but since right now I was so tired that the only word I could remember was the word for heart ‘ _turath’_ , I wasn’t about to try and recall the exact phrase.

Kindor, like the good operator he was, kept the small talk to a minimum, and so most of the ride was done in comfortable silence; him with his own thoughts, and me digging up old memories to torture myself with.  And as much as I enjoyed being around him, I was relieved when the elevator came to a shuddering halt and he pulled the lever opening the doors with their characteristic burst of steam.  “The Archives, Detective Jonas.”  Thanking him, I swiftly got out.

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jonas visits the Archivist and uncovers a clue to the murders that seems unbelievable.

Once I was out of the elevator, I heard it ding as the doors closed behind me, heading off to another level.  The spray of steam coated the back of my duster, but thankfully I had rubbed it down with duck grease the day before yesterday, and so the water slid right off of it.  Just another reason why a lot of people preferred taking the stairs to the elevator.  Walking down the short hallway, I grabbed the handle on the only door in sight and stepped inside the Archives.

There were a few reasons that most mundanes (and even some casters) were frightened by this place, the chief among them being the Archivist.  Personally, it never bothered me, but I could see why its appearance would be cause for alarm.  Once I had entered the room and closed the door behind me, waiting for me behind the counter was said being, looking very dapper and gleaming with fresh polish, the brass and copper gears in its limbs making a nice compliment to the dark steel that made up its torso and head.  “Good morning, Archivist,” I greeted it, stepping up to the counter.

Maybe it was the lack of facial features that bothered most people.  Instead of eyes, it had a single orb in the middle of its face that never blinked; instead of ears, there were two small funnels that were mounted to the side of its head; and, instead of a mouth, there was a circular grill and speaker where that feature would be on a person.  At least it had arms and legs, though to be fair the feet had wheels in them that it used to skate along, and the hands on its arms only had two fingers and a thumb, since it didn’t really need manual dexterity to do its job.

“Good morning Detective Jonas.  How may I assist you today?” it replied, the low volume hum of all its gears merely fading into the background of the Archives constant movement.  Nobody knows what species –or gender, for that matter- the Archivist was originally, but after some horrific accident its brain was placed into an artificial construct that kept it alive.  Why someone wanted it kept alive, instead of allowing it to die, was a matter of rampant speculation.  If anyone knew, they weren’t telling.  But, ultimately it didn’t matter, since it had been in charge of the Archives for as long as most people could remember, at least thirty Cycles or so.  And it was very good at its job, and the only one singularly qualified to do it.

The Archives were completely automated.  When the new station was first being built (after the police force had outgrown the old building that they had been shoehorned into), the Yamda Company –today known as one of the premiere manufacturers of steam-tech equipment- had wanted to make its name known, and donated at considerable expense all of the necessary things needed to create the Archives that we know today.  All of the old case files were sent over to be stored in it.  After only a year, however, it became obvious that no ordinary caster or mundane –even those that had been modified by tech- were capable of keeping up with the rapid calculations that the Archives needed to run efficiently.  What calculations were those, you might ask?  How should I know?  I’m definitely not up on all the intricacies of steam-tech.  But how it worked didn’t matter in this case; it was in danger of being shut down, and if that happened, Yamda would lose a lot of respect and name recognition in the community.

Enter the Archivist.  One day it just showed up, asking to speak to the Chief.  The conversation took place behind closed doors, with no stenographer present to record what was said; all anyone knew is, after that short five minute talk, both of them emerged and the Chief heralded the anthropomorphic construct as the new head of the Archives.  It quickly got to work, and within days everything was moving along swimmingly, as the Naga saying goes.  Those aquatic people and their wacky sayings about water and stuff.

I realized that my lack of sleep was leading me off on tangents, and came back to the present with a start.  But, I should have expected that it wouldn’t have mattered to the Archivist; it just stood there, patiently awaiting my request.  Unlike most mortal beings, it didn’t consider me rude for woolgathering.  It knew that only someone with need would seek this place out.  “My apologies, Archivist, I haven’t gotten any sleep since the night before last.”

“Apologies are unnecessary, Detective Jonas, but thank you.”  It’s odd to think of something sounding metallic, but that’s exactly what its voice sounded like to me.  Yet, it still managed to hit the right inflections so the words weren’t all flat and monotone.

“Anyway, I’m looking for some old cases, before the ‘one mundane, one caster’ rule was implemented here on the force.  Back before this new station had been built, along with the Archives.  They would mention odd markings on the murder victim’s body, in a language that nobody recognized.  Solved and cold cases both, if you don’t mind.”

“Request received.  Would you please have a seat in the waiting room while I check through the records, Detective Jonas?  I’m afraid I can’t offer you a beverage, but at least it’s quiet and peaceful in there.”  It gestured to the side, where the only other room on this floor was located.  Unlike the chairs down in the Library, these chairs and desks were quite comfortable.  The Archivist really went out of its way to try and make it more relaxing to those who needed to look through the old cases, and it was a shame that its efforts weren’t appreciated more fully.

“Thank you, Archivist.  I think I shall do that.”  It nodded to me once before it turned away from the counter and went into that swirling mass of gears, shelves, and boxes.  Like it knew who its master was, the shelves parted before the Archivist before closing behind it, sealing it away from prying eyes.  Not that anyone wanted to spy on what went on in there.  I had a natural curiosity about how things worked, and even I knew better than to pry.  Some things are better left alone, after all.  Turning away from the counter, I went into the waiting room, sat down in the comfortable chair there, leaned back in it and was fast asleep within seconds.

Feeling that I was being watched, I bolted upright with a start.  Rubbing my gummy eyes, I realized it was only the Archivist, holding a decent sized pile of folders.  I had learned long ago that you needed to grab sleep whenever you could on this job, but I still felt embarrassed that I had passed out so quickly.  “Sorry, Archivist, how long have you been waiting?”

“Only one minute and forty-three seconds, Detective Jonas.  It took me almost twenty minutes to find all of the files using the keywords that you had suggested.  I apologize.”

“Don’t worry about it, and thank you.”  Handing me the stack of folders, it merely nodded and walked out of the room, closing the door behind it.  While it seemed fairly easy going, the Archivist didn’t allow any folders or papers to leave the Archives -though making copies was perfectly acceptable- and so any reading that I needed to do would have to be right here.  “At least Dorf will leave me alone for a while,” I murmured, knowing full well that anyone who showed any steam-tech modifications creeped my partner out badly.  He could see dead bodies, beat up kids, and accident victims all day long, but the sight of someone hobbling along with a prosthetic leg or an artificial hand had him squeamish as all get out.  It was very funny.

With a sigh, I sat back down and opened the top folder.  The Archivist had stacked them chronologically, and so this one was the most recent, dating back about twenty Cycles or so.  Instantly I was struck with similarities between my case and this one.  Like mine, the victim had been a young human female, appearing to be in her twenties, and I was thankful that the detectives on the case had chosen to photograph the markings.  Since it was twenty Cycles ago, the photograph had faded slightly, but squinting my eyes and using a magnifying lens that was left at the desk I was able to confirm that at least they appeared to be the same type of markings that were also on my victim.  It was too blurry to tell if they were exactly the same, however.

It occurred to me that maybe this murder was the reason for implementing the ‘one mundane, one caster’ rule, since it had started roughly twenty Cycles ago.  I put that musing off to the side in my mind to focus on the task at hand.  There was pens and parchment available to take notes, but being a caster I had shortcuts that I could use.  Pulling out a tuning fork from one of my duster pockets, I struck it on the surface of the desk, closed my eyes, and hummed a tune while it resonated.  When it stopped, I opened my eyes and read the contents of the folder out loud, feeling each word etch into my mind.  Once it was done, I put the tuning fork back inside my pocket.  Whenever I struck the fork again and hummed that same tune –and only that tune, not any others- I would be able to recall perfectly every word that had been written down.  Granted, I could only memorize one thing at a time, but it was still a neat trick, if I did say so myself.  And yes, I have almost broken my arm patting myself on the back, what of it?

Putting that folder aside, I grabbed the next one.  After flipping it open, I stopped and stared for a second.  The date on this one said it was forty Cycles ago.  Wanting to confirm my hunch, I temporarily put this folder aside and opened the next one in the stack.  Yup, just like I suspected, sixty Cycles ago.  I wondered why the timing was like this.  Knowing that at certain times of the year and at certain places magic could be more powerful, I wondered whether or not the killings took place at ley lines, intersections of power located all over the world.  It would make sense, though I myself didn’t know of any rituals of that nature, the sacrificial kind.  I’ll take my magic not tainted with pure evil, thank you very much.

Unfortunately, since none of the detectives working these previous cases were casters, they didn’t make note of any significant magical events that may have been taking place at those exact same times: no constellations that were visible, no comets passing overhead, no eclipses or anything of that nature.  All the three folders that I had looked at so far just mentioned the victim, the way she was murdered, and the fact that it was raining cats and dogs at the time.  Surely that was a significant fact, but since most magic that I knew of would be disrupted by a rainstorm I couldn’t see what that was.  And this was before the smog and pollutants from the numerous factories turned our rain sometimes into acid that stained and burned whatever it landed on.  Besides, we were a northwestern coastal city, so it rained quite often.

Thumbing through the last few folders, I confirmed that each grisly murder took place twenty Cycles before the previous one, until I got to the last folder.  Its date placed the original murder almost around the time our fair city got an officially recognized major police force, and you could tell in the language the original detectives used that they were unsure of what they were doing or how they were supposed to track down a killer without any motive or witnesses.  I sympathized with their frustrations, since I was practically in the same boat as they had been, even with all of our technological advancements and magic to help even the odds.

But, buried underneath the usual diatribe against the other races corrupting and polluting the humans and Dwarves –the two races having been allies for many centuries- of this fair city (Elves, Gnomes, and Orcs were all mentioned as murder suspects, of course), there was one small detail that either had escaped all of the other detectives assigned to the other cases or the killers had just gotten wiser in the coming years.  Alongside the first victim was a playing card, like those used in various gambling games that had been played for centuries.

This card, however, had been one that neither detective had encountered before.  It had been on high quality parchment, and the colors hadn’t run in the rain.  Instead of being a numbered card with one of the different suite symbols that were used in each type of game, it had been the capital letter “I” on the top, and the picture had been of a man in a red robe, standing in front of a table and holding aloft a bloody knife.  Reading this, the hairs on my arms stood up, and I knew that this was significant in some way.

Reaching over, I grabbed one of the spare pieces of parchment and dipped the pen in the inkwell before writing down a full description of the aforementioned card.  Granted, it wasn’t much of a clue, but right now it was the only clue that we had.  The wait for the ink to dry seemed to take hours, not the one or two minutes that it actually took.  Grimacing when it was finally done, I stuffed the parchment inside my duster and stood up, making sure to grab the folders before rushing out of the room and thanking the Archivist for his help.  I quickly handed off the folders to it, not worrying if they were in the proper order, since it would just put them away where they belonged anyway.  And besides, it wasn’t like it expected any of us to be as ordered and logical as it was.

Some of the officers and detectives liked to complain that there was no real reason for the Archives, that we could put the space to better use.  Although, they never actually seemed to have a viable suggestion about what they would use the space for; I guess when something makes you uncomfortable because it’s different, you don’t really care about logic or reason.  But in times like this, I was glad that smarter heads prevailed and had the forethought to build it, even if it was in a unique format that made said people feel out of place.  They could just shut up and deal, and if they didn’t want to use every tool at their disposal, that was their loss. 

This clue -and the little cat-nap I had taken earlier- lent me a burst of energy, and I hurried out of the Archives and headed for the elevator.  I needed to get this to Dorf, and fast.  Already I was going over in my head possible places we could take this information to gather any leads.  Even though my partner wasn’t going to like them, since most of them were magical and it had taken him months to get comfortable around my usage, we didn’t have much choice. We had a murderer to catch, and we would follow wherever this trail went.

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jonas interacts with some students about magic, and barely manages to deflect attention away from his secret and assuage Dorf's suspicions.

Thanking Kindor, I barely waited for the elevator doors to open before I slipped out between them and ran to Dorf’s desk, not giving a damn how wet the steam made the back of my neck.  I figured that his press conference would be over by now, and we could get a start on this lead.  Yeah, I knew that this temporary boost of energy wouldn’t last long, but every minute we didn’t pursue this possibly insignificant thread was an extra minute that a killer went free.  And personally, that kind of stuff really pisses me off.  I’m funny like that, I guess.

But when I turned the corner and approached where all of us detectives had our desks, I found my partner surrounded by a gaggle of kids, teenagers from the looks of it.  The majority were human, but I did see a few Dwarves, a couple of Elves, and even a Naga outfitted with a breather so she could walk around on land.  Why they would be talking to Dorf baffled me, since he disliked children almost as much as people who have been modified with steam-tech.  When he saw me, the instant gratitude in his eyes almost made me turn around and run away as payback for earlier; instead, I let out a small sigh and put on my bravest face. 

“How’s it going, partner?” I asked as the kids all turned to face me.  It was intimidating, all of their earnest and curious eyes, and I tried not to be too obvious as I swallowed nervously.

“Just the man I was hoping to see!” Dorf replied with a false sense of cheer; not that he wasn’t happy to see me, but that it was clear he wished he was anywhere but here.  “Detective Jonas, these are some of the 1st Cycle students from the Police Academy; the Chief asked me to answer any questions they had, and so far the only ones they’ve had have been about magic.”

Now it all made sense.  When Dorf had given that press conference, the Chief must have known that my partner sat on that info for a few hours when the press began to tear him a new one.  So, even though the Chief may have agreed with Dorf and what had been done, he still had to punish him; and, since it was well known how bothered my partner was by children, what better way to get back at him than by having the unfortunate detective play babysitter?  And I’m sure if I asked around, I would find that the Chief had ‘encouraged’ the kids to talk about magic.  Well played sir, I thought respectfully with silent applause, well played indeed.

Of course, I could leave my partner to dangle, claiming exhaustion and keeping him stuck with the students.  And, even though I was considered a full caster instead of a partial, my style really didn’t fit into any classification and that could be confusing to some people.  I could try to claim that, and watch Dorf squirm when they turned back to him.  But, doing so was not fair, and besides, he would just get back at me somehow.  So, with a big grin on my face that I didn’t feel, I said, “I would be happy to answer any questions you students may have!  Who’s first?”

The Naga raised her hand first and highest, which honestly surprised me.  Her species were known for being very cautious and not taking chances; maybe the fact that she did was why she was at the Academy and not being raised on her people’s massive merchant boats.  Large black eyes blinking behind her goggles, she took a few deep breathes through her breather, which converted the air that most of us breathed into a liquid, replacing her need for gills while she was landlocked, as they called it.  “We assume you’re a caster, since he’s mundane; what type are you, Detective Jonas?”  She had a very deep timbre, which I’ve been told is necessary for them to hear each other underwater.  I couldn’t help but notice that she also had ear plugs in, since her ears were so sensitive I’m sure we all seemed like we were always screaming to them.

“That’s a very good question, miss.  Who would like to hazard a guess?  Yes, you there,” I pointed at the very small male human in the front of the group.

He flipped his hair out of his eyes before talking, and I did my best not to roll my eyes at how foolish he looked.  Kids and their fashion choices, I silently grimaced.  “Do you use material components or any foci for your magic?”

“I do indeed,” I answered, and by admitting that told all of them I wasn’t a sorcerer.  Everyone knew that sorcerers had magic running through their veins, and to cast a spell all they had to do was cut themselves and let the magic out.  Besides being bloody and disgusting, it also meant that they had no need for any of the things the young man had asked me about.  Most of the group nodded their heads, putting together my answer with what they had learned.  “And, you?” I pointed to another human, a slightly heavier set female off to the right.

Pushing her glasses back up on her nose, she sniffed before replying.  “Are you associated with any temples or deities?”  She looked very pleased with herself.

I smiled before answering.  “While I offer prayers as much as the next person, no I am not affiliated with any religion.”  That let them know that I couldn’t be anything like a cleric or a paladin, since both of those types of people had to pray to some deity –or pantheon, remembering a story that I heard once- in order to cast any magic.  While the young female grinned at having checked off another box, I threw a wrench into her thought process when I added, “But, I do have the ability to heal minor wounds and injuries, however.”  That got them all going, and they ignored me and Dorf to put their heads together and converse amongst themselves.  Man, I loved stumping know-it-alls like this!  Now it was my turn to grin.

Weaving his way through the throng of kids, Dorf made his way to my side and leaned over before whispering, “Man, I am so glad that you showed up!  I didn’t have a damn thing to talk to these kids about, with all their questions being about magic and stuff!  Fucking Chief, this is horse shit!”  One of the Elves, with their acute hearing, poked his head up out of the crowd and gave my partner such a scandalized look that he grumbled and grimaced before mumbling what almost sounded like an apology.  Even I raised an eyebrow at that one.

“No problem, Dorf,” I whispered back.  “So, how long do we have to entertain them?”

“Their teacher should be back for them in another ten minutes or so, thank the Gods!” he snarled.  “This is why every time Gregory brings up adoption I change the subject.  Kids make me uncomfortable.”  He pulled at the collar of his shirt, as if it had suddenly grown too tight.

“You do realize that you were a kid once, correct?” I reminded him drolly.

“Nope, I sprang outta my mom full grown,” he shot back.

“Well then, either you killed your mom doing so, your mom is a giant, or she is really REALLY loose,” I fired back, barely able to keep myself from chuckling.

His eyes got really big, and I could see the flush of red creeping up from his torso and coloring his face.  “Listen, my mom is a fucking angel and you know it, so you take that back or so help me…!”  Dorf never got the chance to finish his threat, because at that point the kids had stopped talking and I stepped forward, doing my best to ignore the growled threats of my partner.

 “Yes, students, are there any more questions?” I asked, and the Elf who had heard Dorf and his filthy mouth cleared his throat to get my attention.  “Yes, young master?”

“Are you of a scholarly bent, Detective Jonas?” he asked, and I knew what he was getting at.  Wizards were capable of some of the most interesting and dangerous spells around, and the only thing that kept them from being all-powerful was their limitation of being bound to their spellbooks; without their spellbooks, most wizards weren’t capable of magicking their way out of a thin cloth sack.  An innate balance to their power, as it were.  You could always tell a wizard, not only from the belt satchel that carried their books within easy reach, but from the ink-stained fingers they all seemed to acquire from their constant note taking and copying.

Smiling, I held up my hands and showed them my ink-free fingers.  “While I am more than capable of hitting the books and putting in hours of research –and am easily more of a scholar than my partner here- I am not a wizard.”  My little aside had them all giggling and tittering behind their hands, and I could feel the heat from the glower that Dorf aimed at my back.  Hey, just because I said I wouldn’t hang him out to dry didn’t mean I couldn’t have a little fun at his expense.  I’m a nice guy but I’m no saint, that’s for sure!

They all began talking amongst themselves again, and I knew I had them stumped.  I spotted someone wearing a prim and proper uniform that mimicked what the students were wearing, and figured that was their instructor.  “Well kids, it seems like your instructor is returning to take you on the rest of your tour, so I am sad to say that none of you guessed what kind of caster I am.  Maybe you haven’t done enough research, or maybe I’m just too clever for you.”  I couldn’t help but smirk after I said that last part.  To be fair, I wouldn’t have suspected any of them could guess what kind of caster I am; it’s not like there is a lot of my kind around anymore, though we used to number in the hundreds. Those days are long gone now.

As I was about to turn away, I noticed that one of the Dwarves, a girl from the looks of it, was jumping up and down with her hand raised trying to get my attention.  I figured I’d give her a break and call on her.  “Yes there, the female Dwarf in the middle, did you have a question?”

Pushing past her classmates, the girl stomped forward and spent a few seconds adjusting her clothes, glaring around at the other students.  “I mentioned this theory, but since no one else thought it was sound, they all ignored it.  Are you musically talented, Detective Jonas?”

It felt like my heart had just stopped, or that the floor had opened up and I was about to fall down into the yawning abyss.  “I’m sorry, miss, I didn’t quite catch that.”  I hoped that my voice sounded normal to them, because to me it sounded like I was beyond nervous.

Turning to face her classmates, the Dwarven girl gave them a triumphant grin.  “See?  I told you it was a valid question.  Just because none of you have ever heard of them doesn’t mean that they don’t exist!”

Gratefully, I was saved from having to answer her by the instructor finally arriving at the group.  “Thank you so much for answering any questions they had, Detectives,” she thanked both Dorf and me.  “I hope they weren’t too much trouble.”

Since I was having difficulty breathing, Dorf stepped forward and gently pushed me behind him, to help deflect any attention I may be drawing.  “It was no trouble at all, Instructor.  I think everyone found it quite informative.”

The instructor positively beamed at this, and she and my partner spent the next few minutes making small talk while her students gathered up all of their things and put away any parchment and pens they had been using to take notes.  Only the Dwarven girl didn’t, trying her best to stare at me whilst I did my best to ignore her.  Soon enough, the instructor had gathered up her students like herding a gaggle of geese, and they went deeper into the station where they would be someone else’s problem, not ours.

Once they were gone, Dorf spun to face me.  “What in the seven Hells was that about?  I’ve never seen you this out of sorts!”  He must have seen how pale I was, because he lowered his tone.  “Care to explain?”

Coming back to myself, I shook my head a few times before answering him.  “It’s not important, partner.  What is important is this,” and I handed over the clue that I had dug up.  Taking the paper from me with a look that promised this conversation wasn’t over, Dorf scanned what I had written down.  “You know what this means, don’t you Dorf?” I asked him as he gave a low groan of regret when he finished reading it.

“Yeah yeah, this means that we’re taking a trip over to the Arcane Market,” he said with a full body shudder.  “And that means I can’t take my steam-carriage either.”  The Arcane Market had a strict policy against allowing steam-tech of any kind on their grounds, and he knew it.  So not only would we be on foot, but he would be surrounded by casters and trinkets galore.  This day just wasn’t his day.

“Sorry, buddy,” I said as I clapped him on the shoulder, and I actually meant it.  Some people just aren’t comfortable around magic, no matter how prevalent it is.  Using my hand on his shoulder to steer him, I pushed Dorf forward away from our desks and towards the front of the station.  Hopefully, by the time this day was done, my partner would forget all about what that Dwarven girl had said and I could once again leave my past where it belonged: behind me.

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jonas and Dorf head to the Arcane Market (by horse-drawn buggy, no less) to see if the infamous head of that part of town, a half-Giant known as Mama Crea, can give them any leads about the murder.

It’s funny, I thought as we headed out the front of the station, how Dorf’s attitude towards magic and steam-tech was actually fairly typical among most people.  Oh sure, everyone loved steam-carriages, steam-trains, airships, things of that nature.  Those things made people’s lives easier, and so they were tolerated and held up as a standard of what us mere mortals could accomplish if we put our minds to it.  Technology carried us forward into the future, as one company’s advertising slogan went.

Now, show those same people crowing about how amazing technology was a pistol, a prosthetic limb, a person who had willingly chosen having their perfectly good eyes removed for artificial ones that saw in the dark and could detect heat sources – and watch how uncomfortable they get, some even averting their eyes or pretending that things like that didn’t happen.  Tell them how in some shady parts of our fair city, poor people have their organs harvested so the rich and powerful can keep on living, and just watch the blood drain from their faces.  You can’t have your cake and eat it too, as the Gnomes say.  And those people really have a sweet tooth.

But, as much as technology can seem divisive, both advancing our society and holding it back in equal measures, magic is in a whole other category altogether.  Despite what the coppertales and the plays depict, magic is not a be-all end-all solution to all of your problems.  Nor does magic do half of the things fiction says it does.  Really, if I could just wave my hands and conjure up anything I needed, why would I work?  Wouldn’t all magic users just make themselves rich living in castles and mansions?  I swear, reading some of those stories I’m surprised my eyes didn’t stick in the back of my head I kept rolling them so much.

And don’t get me started on trying to explain to a layman the difference between a full and a partial caster.  It’s like I was speaking another language the few times that I’ve tried!  Even Dorf barely understands, and he’s been around it for years!  Really, it’s not that difficult.  Partial casters are usually self-taught or partaking in a magical tradition that is passed down from parent to child; they can only cast charms or other minor magical spells; and sometimes craft little trinkets that can be used for protection around the house, love potions, things of that nature.  Usually I compare it to someone who has learned a few words and phrases in another language; not enough to be fluent, but just enough that it’s apparent they’re making an effort to speak it.

Full casters are not only capable of speaking that other language like a native, they speak it with such ease it’s like they were born to do so.  I’m not even going to get into how many magical traditions there are.  Suffice to say, those kids and their questions about what tradition I am only scratched the surface of possible combinations.  Gods, Dorf was right.  Listening to myself ramble on about magic and casters reminds me that I can be a pretentious dick about it, like my shit don’t stink.  I know it does, I just forget to inhale sometimes, that’s all.

“Hey, Jonas!  If we’re gonna head over there, let’s go now before it gets dark.  Some of us can’t see in it so well, thank you very much!” Dorf’s voice rang out from in front of me, and I stopped my daydreaming to realize that he had flagged down one of the old horse-drawn carriages that still hung around the city, his look of a man hanging onto a cliff by his straining fingers as they slipped one by one.  He knew his time was over, and yet he still kept fighting.  I admired that; I also admired that I wouldn’t have to be crammed into my partner’s steam-carriage, and so I made sure to give the driver an extra silver coin as I climbed into the carriage.  “You’re loving this, ain’t you?” Dorf grumbled as he slid into the seat in front of me.

“More than you can imagine,” I couldn’t help but grin before I inhaled audibly.  “Ah!  The classics, riding around in a horse-drawn carriage.  Don’t you just love the fact that you can breathe without exhaust choking you?  I know I do.  Go on Dorf, take a big whiff!”

“All I can smell is the cheap gin the driver has on his breath and horse shit,” he mumbled, and I tried my best to stifle my laughter.  From the look he shot me, I didn’t do a very good job.

I wiped a tear from my eye, and tried to wipe the grin from my face.  “Before you got in, did you tell the driver where we’re headed?”

“Yeah I did, which he just nodded and said he figured as much, since otherwise we wouldn’t have hired him.  Doesn’t pick up many fares in front of the station, you know.  All in buddy, let’s get this show on the road!” Dorf barked as he gave two short thumps on the roof.  I heard the reins snap, and just like that we were off.  My partner pressed back into his seat as hard as he could, gripping the sides like his life depended on it.  It almost seemed like he was whispering prayers, since I saw his lips moving but no sounds were coming out.

“Wait, don’t tell me: Dorf, do you have motion sickness?” I asked, finally seeing the real reason he may not want to ride around like this.  “That can’t be it, right?”

“Well, what if I do?” he snarled out before closing his mouth angrily.

“I’ve seen the way you drive, and you drive like a madman!  How is it that you can do that, but the swaying of this carriage makes you want to vomit?”

He clenched his eyes shut tight.  “When I drive the steam-carriage, I’m in control.  It feels different, and so it doesn’t bother me that much.  Here, I have no control over where we’re going and I can’t even see where we’re headed.  It’s enough to have my stomach doing flips.”

“Wow, partner, I had no idea.  Truly, I didn’t.”  I got quiet for a second as Dorf just sat there, breathing loudly through his nose.  “But, maybe you could try not driving like such an asshole next time?  That might make it easier for me to feel bad for you in moments like this.”

“Fuck you,” he said, but he smiled when he said it.  I smiled back, and then let him be.  Me, I was enjoying the gentle back and forth of the carriage as it rolled down the street.  They all used to be cobblestone lined, but after the rise of the steam-carriage as the vehicle of choice, all the roads got replaced with this new substance called concrete.  Definitely made the ride smoother, in my opinion.  Plus, from my earliest memories, I had always loved the smell of horses, and hearing them whinny took me back to a happier, simpler time.

Riding around this way you got to see more of the city than if you were rocketing around corners and down streets.  Granted, today was a good day and the sun had managed to burn off most of the smog clouds that were emitted by our illustrious factories running night and day, but still…I looked out the window and watched the citizens going about their lives.  It was my honest wish that I never had to meet most of them, since most of the time that meant either they were guilty of a crime, or I had to be the bearer of bad news that someone they knew was the victim of one.  Most people weren’t happy to see a detective, that’s for sure.

All too soon, my musings were interrupted as the carriage slowed down and the hairs on my arm stood on end.  That much magic being used always added a charge to the atmosphere, another reason why steam-tech was forbidden from being used here.  Too much power could cause some devices to explode, after all.  This meant we must be approaching the entrance to the Arcane Market, which would be too narrow for the carriage to drive down.  Plus, we didn’t actually have an official destination in mind, so we’d have to hoof it up and down the Market looking for what we needed to find.

Once we stopped, I opened the door just in time for Dorf to throw himself out of the carriage and hurl up whatever he had grabbed for breakfast.  That reminded me, I still needed to eat, I thought as my partner tried his best to puke his guts out.  Seeing stuff like that never bothered me, which was a plus in our line of work.  And, my time at the Academy taught me that you ate when you could, slept when you had the chance, and never took for granted that you would live to see the next day.  Ignoring Dorf, I handed the driver another silver and pulled out an apple from my duster for the horse.  Both appeared grateful, and with a tip of his hat, the driver wheeled his carriage around and went off in search of more fares.

Standing up, Dorf took out a handkerchief from his coat pocket and wiped his mouth off.  Seeing how gross that looked, he grimaced and threw it in the nearest trash receptacle before pulling out his flask and rinsing his mouth out.  “Ugh, that’s worse than the time I had worked up the nerve to ask Gregory out and consumed some liquid courage.  Years later and I can still taste it.  Let me tell you, Naga vodka tastes just as bad coming up as it did going down.”  Shaking his head, he put his flask away.  “So, any bright ideas where to start our search, Jonas?”

I shook my head.  “I figured we could start by paying our respects to Mama Crea.”

Dorf paled even more.  “Wow, you don’t mess around, do you?  Gotta visit the scariest and craziest person here right off the bat, yeah?”

Scowling at him, I shushed him while I lowered my voice.  “Keep your insults to yourself, OK?  She’s basically the mayor of the Market, and she’s our best chance of not wandering around all day and night hoping that we stumble upon someone who can help us!  Or do you have a better plan?” I hissed at him.

Pride and street smarts had a war on my partner’s face, but thankfully smarts won out and he lowered his voice before replying.  I knew he didn’t like the old half-Giant, but bad mouthing her here in this place could cause us trouble we didn’t need to go looking for.  “No, and you’re right.  That’s as good a place as any to start.  Let’s go.”  He let me lead the way, knowing that my senses would be more likely to detect anything wrong before his would.  It’s not weakness to admit when someone does something better than you, and after years of working together we had established a pattern to our investigations.  Dorf handled the dirty work, and I handled the tech and the magic, even though I knew just about as much about steam-tech as he did, probably less.

Before we could enter the Arcane Market, we both had to pass under the Detection Arch.  Long ago, somebody had created this gold and silver filigreed stone arch that passed over our heads.  Any mundane that walked under it didn’t cause any reaction in the slightest.  A partial caster would cause it to glow a soft silver color, and a full practioner such as myself would cause it to light up bright golden.  Supposedly, it was designed for the magic community’s protection, to let everyone know when a mundane was walking around.  Me personally, I thought it was so more shady characters could try to pass off cheap junk and knock-offs to unwary shoppers, but then again I’m a bit more suspicious of my magical brethren.  Past experiences and whatnot.

We both passed through, and like I mentioned it didn’t react to Dorf at all and it lit up golden when I walked under it.  My partner pulled his hat down tight as if he was preparing for battle, and with a smirk I lead us down the entrance into the Arcane Market, steeling myself for our meeting with the eclectic and ancient –for a half-Giant, that is- Mama Crea.

 


End file.
